A Beat of My Own

I have never met anyone who views dancing with a little bit more opposition than I do. Perhaps I never will. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against dancing. Dancing per se, that is. Me, dancing, is another thing- that would be the problem. Let’s just say that I have a beat of my own. One that could not converge to the beat of a dance.

I remember being asked a hypothetical question. It went like this, ‘If you could duplicate a talent from a known personality , what would it be?’ That one was easy. I didn’t break out a sweat. I answered, ‘Maja Salvador’s dancing prowess.’ **grin**

Not being able to dance has never been a hindrance for me. Once a year field demos from elementary to high school proved to be an annoyance more than an obstacle. Stepping into college, however, is a totally different thing. Taking up Mass Communication, well.. I guess somehow, dancing came as a requirement, a package at the very least. We are taught about the different medias, wherein the theater is one, which meant dancing, dancing and **swallow** more dancing…

Not being able to dance suddenly became an insecurity. I have never thought of it more negatively. In a world where almost everyone, and I mean ‘everyone’ can dance, I’m at odds. If only dancing was like ‘cooking’ that if you don’t know how, you can always practice and there’s a very good chance that you will learn. Dancing is not like that. Let’s be real. If you’re not gifted with that talent, you will never learn. **sigh**

I will never step on stage if only to dance. There are a lot more ways to humiliate myself besides that. I’d rather get hit by a bicycle and die on the spot. What could be more humiliating than that? Academically wise, I’d rather fail than dance. I can take a 5.0. **hyperventilate** …well… I guess I could.

Note: This is an old post from my blog at blogger. It was dated October 5, 2008.

Bitter Winner

“Assumptions only set you up for disappointments.”

I couldn’t agree more. I learned it the hard way, though. I can still taste it. The taste almost parallel to chewed paracetamol, slicing through my taste buds. Bitter. But it’s worse. It crawls down to the confines of my severed heart. Severed. I guess that’s the right word. How many times have I hurt this way? Four? Five? Maybe six, I’m not sure. Each time the hurt grows stronger than the last. If only my heart knew better. How many pains can my heart endure before it learns? That last statement got me into thinking. I have hurt enough. Enough for me to learn, but still, I ended up hurting like this. My ‘stupid’ heart. No matter how much I bluff, no matter how much I lie to myself, my heart still decides for itself. It feels what it feels. No amount of rationality can stop it. The heart has again revealed one of its many mysteries. More than an organ, it is something magical, something that exceeds reality. Sometimes I think it’s a totally different entity with a mind of its own. It amazes me how the heart can break and shatter into a million tiny pieces, hurting as it does. But when totally healed and mended can still be brave enough to love again. Or break again. It’s not stupid after all, just stubborn.

Assumptions. For the hundredth time I wished I was one with trust issues. Why has it been so easy for me to trust people? Men in particular. It’s plain, bold, idiocy. I know men. Men are like MnM’s, they all come in different colors but deep down inside, they’re one and the same. I know. I don’t like stereotyping either. Generalizing is unfair. I know that. But every time I set men apart, they just prove to me that they’re no different. Maybe that description is only appropriate to the ‘men that I knew.’ Maybe that description ends with them. Maybe.

Bitter. Songs, movies, couples. They’re everywhere. So much so it annoys me. I am in pain. Not because I lost someone or did not have someone. I am in pain because I did it again. I let myself down. I assumed and then I let myself fall. It burns. The feeling sucks. I am ashamed of myself. I should have known better, a little too well. But the worst part is that, I could not promise myself to know better next time. I could not promise myself to not do things the way I did things now. I could not promise myself that I wouldn’t get hurt again tomorrow. I just can’t.

I know the feeling simply isn’t gratifying.
One thing’s for sure, I did not deserve any of these. **modesty aside**
And yet, I should be utterly thankful. Why? Let’s just put it this way: What would I be like if I ended up with one of those heartless, soulless players? **no offense meant** I bet it’s not good. It wouldn’t be gratifying either. “Love hurts when God knows we deserve someone better.” Now that’s a quote worth sharing. I guess, somehow, I am a winner because I didn’t end up miserable with a player. It is the payer who is miserable not ending up with me. ;p

Note: This is an old post from my blog at blogger. It was dated October 5, 2008.

See the original post here:

http://myveryownoasis.blogspot.com/2008/10/bitter-winner.html